“Dylan.”

“Huh?” I croak, reaching up and placing my hand to my chest. It’s heaving, forcefully pushing against my palm. He slows his stroking, prompting me to look into his eyes. “I wanted you to rip it.”

His eyes widen, sparkling with curiosity.

I swallow the uncomfortable lump that’s lodged itself in my throat before explaining myself. “I… I think it’s really hot when you get all crazy over what I wear. You like showing me who has control, but I see you struggling with it when you see me in outfits like that. I like knowing I can do that to you. You’re not easily unraveled.”

He releases my wrist and grips my hip, digging into my skin as he slides me closer to him. He’s hovering above me, close enough to touch, but he won’t let me. His face relaxes slightly. “Your body belongs to me. When you wear shit like that and I’m not around, other men think they have a shot at what’s mine. They don’t. And I’m half-tempted to go to that club and kill every motherfucker in there who looked at you.”

I place my hand on his chest, lightly applying pressure. “Hey. It was just a stupid dress. Are you going to act like this on Saturday and go on a killing spree at the Whitmore? The bride gets a lot of attention on her big day.”

One eyebrow raises. “Are you planning on wearing something like that?” I smile sweetly and shake my head, my eyes dropping to watch him return to his task. “You want to see me lose control?”

“Yes,” I answer breathlessly.

His eyes roll closed and he starts stroking faster, gripping tighter, breathing heavier. I can only lie back and watch, completely fascinated and way the hell turned on. “Fuck,” he pants, eyes flashing open. “You unravel me every second, love. Every time I look at you.” He groans loudly, finding his release and shooting it onto my stomach. His nostrils flare as his eyes slowly reach my face. “My eyes only. Remember that.”

I nod, unable to form a verbal response. My mouth is too dry for words at the moment.

He straightens up and lets his pants and boxers fall to the floor, stepping out of them. His shirt is removed next and I watch in complete awe as he walks toward the bathroom, his glorious, bare ass tempting me to give my clit the attention it’s screaming for. “Don’t even think about it.”

His voice cuts into my lustful thoughts and I stop myself from responding with a lie. Because that’s exactly what it would be. I was thinking about it; it’s hard not to at the moment. He returns with a small towel and proceeds to wipe me clean.

“Reese?”

“Yeah?” He chucks the towel across the room, returning his eyes to mine. And there it is, that endearing look he seems to reserve just for me. The look that makes my heart swell against my ribs. No tension in his face, no tight lips or creased brow, just him. The man I’m going to marry.

I turn and glance at the alarm clock. I was originally going to threaten to withhold his orgasm someday, but that look of his totally gets to me. Like it always does. “Six days.”

His eyes flick quickly to his left, verifying what I’ve just told him. A light smile touches his lips as he climbs onto the bed, sitting with his back against the headboard. He taps his lap, eyes soft and no longer laced with anything besides affection. I can’t resist that look. And I want my spot. Crawling into his lap, I lay my cheek against his chest and nuzzle away. His arms wrap around me, pulling me closer before he bunches the covers around my waist. My favorite smell in the world fills me, intoxicating me further, and I feel my body relax into his as my sexual frustrations slip away.

“So, Juls said this account with Bryce was worth a lot of money. Is that why you’re doing it?”

I feel his fingers play with the ends of my hair as it falls down my back. “No. I’d never work with somebody who made you uncomfortable because I want to get paid. It’s just really important, that’s all.”

I lean back, not feeling satisfied with his cryptic answer. “Why?”

We stare at each other for several seconds before he speaks. “Do you trust me?” My back stiffens and he notices, prompting him to grab my hips and pull me closer. “Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Then trust me when I say it’s important. I can’t talk to you about it; not yet, anyway. But I will. I promise I’ll tell you everything when it’s all said and done.”

I don’t understand how any part of Reese’s job can be secretive; he’s an accountant, not in the mob. But I do trust him. Completely. So I’m not going to question this. “Promise me something?”

He smiles cunningly. “Depends on what it is.”

I grab his face and lean in, brushing my lips against his. “Don’t do anything that would keep you from marrying me. I will be a very angry bride if you spend our wedding day in jail.”

He laughs against my mouth. “Nothing could keep me away, love.”

I drop my head back down and close my eyes.

Nothing could keep me away either.

11

I’m never drinking again.

My head is pounding, my stomach is rolling, and my face is plastered to the cold tile of the bathroom floor.

This is not a good look for me. Nor is it one I wear often.

I’ve puked most of the night, the wave of nausea hitting me hard sometime after I passed out on Reese’s chest and sending me barreling head-first toward the toilet. But miraculously, I’m a quiet puker, so my well-rested fiancé was kept blissfully unaware about my nightly vomit-fest. That is, until he caught me praying to the porcelain God this morning, which is where I’ve spent most of my time while he packs for both of us. I’m dressed now, so at least progress has been made.

I feel his hand on my hip as I stay in my permanent fetal position. “Here, love. I brought you some water and two Advils. Have you thrown up recently?”

I shake my head, keeping my eyes closed.

“Do you think you’re going to throw up any more?”

I shake my head again. I haven’t thrown up in a least an hour, but I also haven’t tried moving either. I hear the soft clink of a glass and then feel his arms wrap me up as he lifts me off the floor, effortlessly as usual. I lay my head against his chest until he shifts me in his arms. I feel the bathroom countertop underneath my thighs as he sets me down on it and settles between my legs.

He picks up the glass of water and holds it out to me with the two pills in his other hand. “Take these. It’ll help. And we’ll get you some ginger ale on the plane for your stomach.”

I swallow the pills and drink close to half the glass before setting it down next to me. My head drops forward and my shoulders slouch. “I hate having you see me like this.”

He laughs quietly. “Like what?

I tuck my hair behind my ear and groan, keeping my eyes on my legs. “Like a train wreck. This isn’t like me; I can usually hold my alcohol. I don’t think I’ve gotten sick since the singing-telegram tequila incident.” My stomach churns at the word tequila. That hateful bitch and I can’t be in the same room together. I bring my fingers up to my face and begin massaging my temples. “What time do we have to leave?”

“Soon. The cabs will be here in thirty minutes.” His hands run down my bare arms, gently applying pressure. “Can I do anything else? Do you need anything?”